They crested the hill, and Kemme led them until they reached a little grove of pine trees at the top of a slope whose steep drop to the valley floor was broken only by clumps of trees and a few large stones. On the near edge of the valley ran the ancient track the mortals called the North Road until it vanished where the valley curved at its southern end. Most of the widest part of the valley lay on the other side of the old road, where stands of tall green grass rippled in the wind. The grasses had come with the season, springing up amid the patches of melting snow, and the valley floor seemed a tapestry woven in a wide variety of greens and whites. Here and there Nezeru could make out the dull silver sheen of running water from a tangle of streams snaking across the valley floor that later in the spring would overspill their low banks, join together, and become a single rushing flood beside the North Road. Such an abundance of water and new growth made Nezeru slightly dizzy, accustomed as she was to the hard, dark soil of Hikeda’ya lands, so it was a moment before she saw what Kemme had already seen: something upright was moving in the distance.

Far out across the valley and a bit north of where the two Hikeda’ya stood was a host of two-legged shapes busy at some task, bent, arms swinging. They were too far away for Nezeru to make out clearly what they were doing—mortal eyes would not have discerned them at all—but Kemme gave her a contemptuous look, as though their presence proved some point her stubborn ignorance had denied. He signaled her to follow him northward along the slope above the road so they could get a better view, and Nezeru did as she was told.

As they drew a little nearer to the distant figures the morning sun finally breached the eastern hills and began its climb into the sky, so they turned farther up the hillside in search of cover. Following Kemme silently through the trees, Nezeru was again troubled by what seemed like clear tactical mistakes, first by Makho and now by Kemme. If their goal was to cross the mortals’ great road safely and vanish into the waste, far from spying mortal eyes, why had they come so far south in the first place before crossing, and why bother now to approach what almost certainly would turn out to be the mortal inhabitants of some nearby village? Even the stealth of trained Sacrifices could be betrayed by accidents, by unexpected noises or the appearance of unforeseen others. What could be learned here that was worth taking such a risk?

Finally they drew close enough to see that the people on the far side of the road were indeed mortals, about two or three score of them, all garbed like peasants. Most were cutting grass with sickles, but some seemed to be uprooting it with their bare hands. Moments later Nezeru saw that the mowers seemed to be protected—or perhaps prevented from escaping—by a handful of other mortals who watched them from horseback.

The two Sacrifices spent a long, silent time watching, and after a while Nezeru had to fight against impatience. The longer they crouched here staring, the higher the sun rose, and the growing brightness of the landscape was threatening to turn her discomfort into something more like fear, for all her training. Was she the truly mad one? Why was Kemme putting them—and perhaps even their mission from the Mother of All—at risk simply to watch a group of farm slaves?

Kemme seemed especially fixed on the three riders watching over the workers, though so far they had mostly sat in their saddles observing their charges from a distance. Occasionally one rode a little way in one direction or another toward where a knot of mowers had gathered, and each time a horseman approached, the workers quickly dispersed and returned to their labor. Then, as one of the riders wheeled, Nezeru spotted a glint of metal and realized the distant figure was wearing armor, which seemed strange to her. What mortal peasants could afford men-at-arms to watch over them while they toiled? And what mortal knights would give their time to such an unexceptional endeavor? No, she decided, these workers must certainly be slaves under guard. She also thought the mortal overseers must be impressively brutal to use so few guards to watch over so many.

One of the other riders abruptly turned his horse away from the group and came riding across the valley toward the North Road, heading straight toward the Hikeda’ya’s hiding spot. Nezeru knew he could not have possibly seen them from that distance, but Kemme was already climbing down the slope toward better cover. When he reached it, he began to move toward the spot where the rider was headed. Nezeru followed carefully, hoping that he would soon tire of watching the mortals so they could go back to their hidden camp.

Then things began to happen very quickly.

The armored rider reached the road and crossed it, then spurred his mount up the slope, only a few hundred paces below Kemme. Moving in swift silence, Kemme hurried along through the trees above the mortal and his horse until he reached a spot just above them, but out of the rider’s sight

The knight dismounted a little way up the slope and tied his mount to a tree branch, then took a wine-sack from his saddle and had a long drink. When he finished, he took off his helmet and hung it on the pommel of his saddle. He had a brown beard and the boiled reddish skin of his kind, and surveyed the landscape with the unhurried air of someone trying to remember whether or not he had ever seen this place before.

Kemme had risen almost before Nezeru sensed his movement, his bow already drawn. His arrow flew buzzing like a deadly wasp and struck the rider in the chest, piercing the mortal’s mail-coat with such force that the impact tumbled him down the slope. He lay there in a sprawl and did not move. Kemme sprang down the hill and crouched over the body, staring at the dead face as if at a long-sought enemy.

“No ambush, the mortal claims?” he hissed as Nezeru reached him. “No ambush? Then why is this man in armor? That rabble cutting grass are no mere farmers, they are foragers for an army.”

Nezeru bent and looked the dead man up and down. He wore a green surcoat over his armor that bore the stitched insignia of a pair of dragons supporting a shield, one worm red, the other white. “I have been told of this mark,” she said. “I think it is—”

Kemme turned and slapped her across the face so hard that she stumbled backward several steps.

“I said, I am tired of hearing you speak.” He stared at her as at an animal, his violet eyes empty. “Makho told me I cannot kill you because of the child you carry, but you do not need both your hands to give birth. If you make another sound I will remove one.” He yanked his knife from his belt to cut a piece of the surcoat from the dead mortal’s body.

Nezeru sank into a half-crouch. Her face ached, but that was nothing compared to her sudden alarm. It was not the blow that surprised her—harsh discipline was common in the Order of Sacrifice—but Kemme’s obvious hatred, only barely kept in check. Again, she was struck with the depth and breadth of her failures.

And if he or the chieftain ever discovers that there is no child? She did not want to think about what would happen then.

She was so distracted, and Kemme so busy wrestling with the heavy, armored body as he searched it, that the other mortal rider had approached to less than a bowshot away before either of them noticed.

The approaching horseman could not clearly make out what they were doing because of the patchy undergrowth, but it was obvious that he could see the dead knight’s riderless horse and the fallen man’s legs with Kemme bent over them, because he abruptly reined up and then turned and galloped away. Kemme cursed and leaped to his feet, drawing his bow as he sprinted after the fleeing rider. The mortal lifted a horn to his mouth and blew three long, shrill bursts before Kemme’s arrow lifted him from the saddle and dashed him to the ground. His horse plunged on across the road and out into the valley.